


Salvage Yard

by harcourt



Series: Stark Business Empire [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Consent Issues, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Restraints, Training, darkish world, non-con elements, non-consensual medical procedure, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:33:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3400355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1522274">Counterbalance</a>.</p><p>Tony seeming determined to spin out is about all Phil can handle for a single evening. Which means it's the perfect time for Clint to make his own move.</p><p>Or, Clint makes an escape attempt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Steve's the natural choice to have hang around Tony, fetching water and filling glasses and standing guard. Looking both charming and reassuringly solid where he stands against the wall in his dark security uniform, eyes on Tony and the crowd. 

There's no need, really, for Phil to be here. He's got no interest in the presentation and Steve has no need of supervision. He's got access to a car, a firearm, and has had a street pass for a while, so Phil coming along to this shindig seems both ridiculous and hypocritical. 

At least there's Bruce to pretend to deal with. Fidgety and waffling precariously between what looks like nervousness and irritation as Tony makes a show out of research that's at least half his. It's always a bit of a circus, with Tony. There's nothing getting launched, this time, and the holographic powerpoint and lightshow is as understated as Tony's show-offy instincts will allow, but it's probably still too flashy for Bruce's taste.

Or maybe it's the antagonizing aspect of Tony's pomp. Flying willfully in the face of all sense and any amount of advice to _tone it down, Tony, for god's sake_.

Pepper is probably quietly developing an ulcer somewhere backstage.

"What do you want me to do? Come out with a chalkboard and a laser pointer?" Tony demands, during a break. Throwing his arms out dramatically, as if Bruce was a tyrant set on squelching his self-expression. 

"I'd let you have a whiteboard." It's dry, and too soft spoken for real rebellion, and Tony pauses like he can't tell if that's back talk or Bruce's real preference. 

"I'm sorry I'm dragging down the dignity of your research," he huffs.

"And making a circus out of academia," Bruce adds, but pours Tony more water, topping off his glass and handing it over with the slightest submissive tilt to his head, diverting attention from the attitude. If he was even slightly louder, Phil would have to do something about it, but Bruce is a master of toeing the line. Pushing right up to it, but managing to never quite tip over.

"Look who's talking,” Tony snorts. "Mister scientific ethics himself."

For all of Tony's public face enthusiasm, he's in a mean mood, which means there's possibly a meltdown in the works for later today. Bruce twitches a little at the comment, but he's read the situation as clearly as Phil, and subsides into wary unease. Not really worried for himself as much as for Tony, probably. Nasty remarks have really been the extent of what Tony will take out on people he owns, and Bruce has been a part of the household long enough to recognize the red flag.

"Tony--" Phil starts, leaning in across the table, keeping his voice low in case the microphone clipped to Tony's lapel picks him up. It hasn't been broadcasting Tony's snippiness to the whole room and assorted media outlets, so it's probably been turned off. Still, better safe than have a minor tantrum escalate into a scandal, escalate into Tony getting angry and depressed and acting out, escalate into a scandal--the whole spiral is exhausting to think about.

"What?" Tony asks, just shy of snappish, "You want to see me downstairs? Upstairs. Whichever of those you think works."

Phil very carefully doesn't react. "If that's what you want," he says, voice even and politely pleasant. Making it friendly and calm. He's getting more practice at the skill now than he had when he'd been working for Nick and winning the trust of suspects and possible future assets. "My services are yours." He lets that last be wry, and a little amused, and after a second the angry crease in Tony's brow softens a little. 

"Yeah. Ha ha," he grumbles, finally draining his water glass before pushing it back at Bruce to refill, leaving Steve to concentrate his hovering on the audience rather than play footman. "You'll have to work harder if you want to see me with my pants off, sorry to say."

Or log onto the internet, Phil doesn't add, even though the remark is on the tip of his tongue and tempting. It's more work to wrangle Tony than anyone he's _supposed_ to be wrangling, some days, but he can't really lose his temper, and expect Bruce or Steve--or, god help him, Clint--to keep _their_ behavior in check.

The auditorium is large, and packed, and Phil wishes he could expect this 'talk' to end without dancing girls and fireworks, but it probably won't. He and Pepper and Rhodes had all advised against over the top showyness, but Tony's in the kind of stubborn mood he gets into when he thinks the world--friends included--is against him, so he's likely going to be doing the exact opposite of anything they've advised, just to prove the point.

Tony grins. Phil recognizes the hard edges in it. The way the shadows look sharp in the corners of his eyes and mouth. "I'm not fighting with you," Phil tell him, "I just want this to wrap up without anyone getting burned or arrested, and then go home and take a nap."

"And blow off my soiree?" Tony asks, raising an eyebrow, face softening a little into indignant hurt. 

"I'm too old for late nights." 

Tony's face twitches. Unsure if that's a dig, and Phil doesn't let the satisfaction of having successfully needled him show on his face. Keeps it bland and polite and pleasant. Tony flicks a laser pointer on and aims it at him. The little red dot flicking from a spot over Phil's heart to his forehead and back.

"Fine. But it's going to be an _amazing_ afterparty, just so you know what you're missing. I'm having the whole cast of that musical over--you know the one? With the girl and the--Anyway. It was a Pepper thing. She'll get a kick."

Phil highly doubts Pepper will. Pepper will probably spend half the night in the bathroom quietly pulling her hair out. Phil's also sure at least half of Tony's dancing fireworks girls will make an appearance, possibly still in costume, which will probably end up with Tony acting more inappropriate and out of control than Phil had already been expecting. There's something about crowds and flamboyance that Tony just can't help playing to. Or something about crowds and flamboyance that Tony feels he _has to_ play to. Phil hasn't quite figure it out, or figured out why Tony intentionally sets himself up, creating risky situations he doesn't even seem to really enjoy, a lot of the time.

"You're invited, too," Tony tells Bruce, flicking the pointer from Phil to him, then to the papers Bruce is busily highlighting, either as cover or because he no longer trusts Tony's focus and doesn't want his most cogent points left out or skimmed over. "Dress nice."

"I don't want to be invited," Bruce says, without looking up. Turning his papers a little so Tony can't shine the pointer onto whatever he's reading, "Please don't invite me."

"You're not invited," Phil says, "Finish up before we run out of interlude."

Bruce highlights his way through another page and a half, then hurriedly leafs through the remainder, circling sections and drawing exclamation points in the margins. "Please at least try to explain the energy conversion--"

"Sure."

It's impatient. Distracted. Bruce frowns and hands the papers over, then sits back with a sigh. Glances at Phil, then away again.

"I'm sorry," Phil says, because Tony's most likely going to ignore most or all of Bruce's reminders, gloss over his technical explanations and go straight to flashy demonstration and flashier wrap-up, then spend the remainder of his time strutting around and pretending to take questions.

"At least my work is being seen," Bruce says, drily pragmatic, or drily sarcastic. It's hard to tell sometimes.

"At least we get to watch Steve try to man the perimeter when the fireworks start going."

They watch Tony bound up the stairs to the stage, to a belated musical accompaniment that he impatiently waves back to silence before straightening his jacket. "So," he says, leaning one elbow on the podium and smiling with perfect, disarming charm, "Where were we?" 

Bruce frowns at the show for couple more seconds, then turns away with a snort that could pass as genuine amusement. "Yeah," he says, but his tone is still flat, "That part's always fun."

\-----

Tony's parties, on the other hand, are always aggravation, and Steve's already tired and irritated from dealing with unexpected explosives and the more unexpected brass band that had accompanied what turned out to be not dancing girls, but marching girls. It's unfair to expect him to be on the top of his game for the rest of the night, after all that.

"Which," Phil says unhappily, to Clint, "Leaves me with you."

"I can be on duty," Steve pipes up, out of turn. Phil lets it go. 

"As backup. It's not a one man job."

"I have Happy," Steve offers. He's got something old and sad playing in the training room, feet up in the sitting area, with his gear dumped on the low table next to his propped up heels. It's as close to sulking as Phil's seen Steve get, but it's still frazzled enough an image to make him smile.

Across the little space, Clint's got the whole window seat to himself. Sitting sideways with his feet up on the cushions, and Phil hadn't ordered him to be there, so with Clint's cageyness about the training room, the only thing he can think is that Clint's come to keep Steve company. Or maybe to provide some kind of protection-by-proximity. Phil's not big on making a show out of things, so he's kept punishment a one-on-one, private thing. Possibly, with Steve's low mood and Phil's impatience, Clint thinks something's about to happen to Steve that he might be able to stop by just being present.

Phil could order him out, but he's been trying to get Clint more comfortable with the room, getting him in for things like equipment maintenance, or to play spotter for Steve's workouts. He's not about to throw him out, or make things unpleasant when he's finally there of his own volition. The manipulation, on Clint's part, is pretty masterful even if his suspicions are wrong.

"Happy will have to hang at the periphery," Phil says, "And you, too." Clint, on the other hand, Clint's perfect for keeping an eye on Tony. Even his drink mixing skills are coming along. Nothing a polite comment or two about training and practice and a joke about Clint's questionable past won't smooth over.

Especially if Clint remembers his manners and doesn't get too tense and weird about people laying hands on him. It's a bit of a mystery to Phil, sometimes, how he'd managed to get out of the retraining center in the first place, with all his twitchy recalcitrance. If he has the skill to fake his way through, then it wouldn't hurt for him to employ it now and then. A little bit of submission and willingness, and he'd make a nice conversation piece. Interesting and possibly a quirky purchase, but nothing anyone would question.

"All you have to do," Phil starts, then decides to go with a practical demonstration and gives Steve's leg a swat, "Feet off the table. Clint, come here."

Clint frowns. Moves slowly. Cautious as a cat, and suspicious as he swings his feet to the floor and slinks more than walks over, coming to a stop a good arm's length away from Phil. 

"Sit on the floor. Start on your knees."

Clint takes a breath, gives him a searching look, then shifts the look to Steve. Frowning at him.

"No," Phil says, which makes Clint turn back to him and scowl more.

"I didn't do anything."

He doesn't have any training tools on him, and Clint's a bit too far out of reach, but he drops into silence as Phil straightens and Steve's posture goes a little more attentive. 

"Keep your eyes down," Phil says, directing instead of reproachful. Keeping things calm. "Don't attract attention you don't need to." Tony would try to run interference and keep an eye on people he considers his responsibility, but Phil's got no doubts that Tony's reliability is going to be solid for maybe half an hour, and after that start dissolving.

The corner of Clint's mouth twitches, but he's dropped his head, and Phil can't see what expression he's making, exactly. "What happened to just serving the hors d'vours?" he asks, after another few moments, raising his eyes enough to give Phil an accusing look.

"You don't have to do anything worse than that. Come here." 

It takes Clint another moment but he comes, stepping into Phil's reach and then letting himself be steered closer to Steve, to stand just by his chair.

"Now down on your knees," Phil says, and waits for Clint to do it, aware of how still Steve's gone. "All you have to do is sit by Tony's feet." Or _on_ his feet, if it would keep him still and out of trouble. "And be charming. If he's showing you off, he's not setting fire to his building, or his guests, or his whole damn life."

"Yeah, I'm a charmer," Clint says, flat and without a snort. All the snideness and sarcasm silent and just implied. Clearly learning from Bruce.

Phil ignores it. Says, "On your knees. I know that you know how to make it pretty."

That might be the wrong thing to say. Circus tricks might not have involved a lot of kneeling and sitting politely--at least at the point that Clint had been at--and it's possible that the hints of formal training Phil's seen in him had come later, and more unpleasantly. Either way, Clint folds to the floor without further argument and settles into place. Not quite relaxing as he does it, but not getting defensive and stiff either.

"You want me to charm Steve?" he asks, then adds, "Sir," with a quiet deference that just has to be sarcasm, but sounds perfect. 

"And me," Phil says. "Pretend I'm one of Tony's guests."

"Engineer wannabe or starlet?" 

"Starlet."

Phil had thought playing to Clint's back talk might throw him, just a little, but it doesn't and he doesn't get the dismissive sound he'd been half expecting either. Instead, Clint's shoulders relax deliberately as he straightens out of his slouch, but only so he can prop his chin on Steve's knee and lean into him. Then he tilts his head until he's resting more comfortably and smiles at Phil. Just a little and with a lazy ease that hasn't been present at all in Clint and _definitely_ isn't something he's been picking up in the slave hall.

And then Steve nervously jiggles his leg, and Clint straightens back up. Gives Phil a look that's somehow smirking and displeased at the same time. Unhappy and uncomfortable, but pleased to have won the point.

"Fine," Phil says, not giving Clint's the victory. Deflating it with his approval. "But you can tone it down. I'm not asking you to compete with the dancers." That he knows are coming, official invitation or not.

"Thank god," Clint mumbles, and leans sideways again. Just resting his head against Steve's thigh in what looks more like companionable comfort than anything seductive. 

Probably doing it without thinking, and Phil waits a few more minutes until he's properly settled and Steve stops looking anxious, before he says, "There. Just like that." And, when Clint starts to react, warns "Stay put," then shifts, moving from chair to coffee table, and scooting until he's close enough to touch Clint, but puts his hand on Steve instead, taking him by the wrist and guiding his hand over until it's pressed to Clint's neck. 

They both tense, but it's just a second and then gone. Clint relaxing, and Steve looking up with a questioning look, hand still in place. There's more suspicion in his face than Phil's been used to seeing from him. 

"Anyone tries too much more than this," Phil tells him, "You pretend something is wrong behind the bar and you need Clint's help."

"Mini fridge leaking," Clint supplies, without moving. "No big deal."

"I'm not very mechanical," Steve says, apologetically and with a smile. His thumb moves a little against Clint's neck. More restless and fidgety than anything, but he doesn't stop when he realizes what he's doing, either.

"Good," Phil says, and gives Clint's head a couple short strokes. Not quite patting, not quite ruffling. Playing the line of what Clint would accept and what he'd bristle under. "Steve, take a break. Clint, go see Pepper. Fill her in and ask how she wants to dress you."

Clint tenses again. Just a little. Just enough for Phil to catch him having an idea. "On second thought," he says, "Steve, take Clint up to see Pepper, _then_ take a break."

\-----

It takes more than an hour for the party to get out of hand, and another twenty minutes for Tony to decide he's on board with that after all, but at least tonight Tony's enthusiasm is taking the form of re-iterating his earlier talking points into a karaoke mic. 

"At least he's on topic," Pepper grumbles.

"It is a post lecture dinner," Phil agrees, taking advantage of the relative calm to be amused. Ice cubes clack softly in his tumbler as he turns it one way in his hand and then the other, the glass slippery with condensation and sliding easily on the marble bar top. Pepper huffs. Takes a sip of her own drink.

"And he's expanding on those points Bruce was on him about," she says, and smiles. She looks more tired than anything, and glad to be off her feet. Phil knows that feeling. His knee's been extra creaky all day and it's nice that he's got Clint occupied and within sight.

He looks good. Pepper's given him shoes, because Tony's parties tend to result in glass on the floor--at the least--and a shirt that's come untucked almost as soon as he could manage it, while pretending to help Pepper open bottles and shift furniture. It's intentional, but the slight dishevelment suits Clint and the way he's watching Tony with the same expression that Steve does, a lot of the time. Like they're trying to decipher code or like they've found a particularly strange looking animal. Clint looks part fascinated, part disgusted, tray of tiny sandwiches just about forgotten in his hands and the sloppy fall of his shirt is just making him look even more ruffled.

"I feel bad for him," Pepper says, "Really, I do, but--" and giggles. That's a feeling Phil knows pretty well, too, that edge where everything tips into absurdity. He can't help but laugh himself, watching Clint trying to watch Tony for cues and getting nothing.

"Wait till Tony starts trying to hit the high notes," he says, "then we'll see how he manages."

"God." Pepper heaves a breath. Shakes her head. Tony's ridiculous, but none of it is _actually_ funny, and Phil can tell she's trying to stifle her laughter.

"Guess you managed to turn away the marching band," Phil says, and takes a tiny sip. By the hallway, Steve looks alert and crisp. Impassive except for a slight downturn at the corners of his mouth. Phil can read him pretty well by now. He's probably been a key part in turning away all kinds of informally invited guests and invited themselves guests, and that tiny frown is a giveaway that means he's ready for the night to be over. 

"They weren't on the list," Pepper says, "But they _were_ offended."

"Guess we'll have to fill our brassband needs elsewhere."

Pepper hums agreement into her drink. Puts it down to exchange greetings with a woman Phil doesn't know. The party isn't going that badly. Bruce might regret his request to be uninvited when he hears that the conversation was in fact about research and possible directions of future inquiry. 

The crowd laughs. The crowd can't tell the difference between Tony putting on a show, and Tony getting on his genuine high horse, resenting them, and the media, and his own company and the lack of interest--parties and socialites aside--in the technologies he and Bruce would really _like_ to develop.

Phil very intentionally doesn't turn to look at Steve and the _what now_ look he knows Steve will have fixed on him. What they need is gentle intervention, and that's not Steve's specialty when it comes to Tony. It's not anyone's specialty, once Tony gets worked up, and he's been tightly wound all day.

"Or," Tony asks, resting an arm on a speaker and leaning against it like he had the podium, earlier. Hitting just the right balance of casual and posed. The way his hair is mussed and his shirt unbuttoned is a lot more artful than Clint. "We can talk about building a new phone. Or maybe a little tiny video player you can also talk to all your friends on and maybe wear in your eye."

"Or we can go back into the bomb business," Pepper mutters, a second before Tony offers, 

"Or we can go back into the bomb business. That was a good time. For everyone involved, I'd say."

Pepper gets up. Smoothes out her dress to prepare for action, but before she can find a way to derail Tony, he's done, tossing the mic and cranking up the music. Swinging back from angry to something resembling cheerful host, and stalking back through the crowd, Clint falling in at his heels.

Tony's phone makes an appearance. Phil's buzzes.

 _Added one to your watchdog party, I see_ , the message says. Phil raises his glass in a mock toast. Smirks as Clint, tray abandoned somewhere, settles in at Tony's feet. Positioning himself to keep Tony hemmed in.

 _Don't think I don't know you told him to do that_ , Tony sends.

"Just have a drink, Tony," Phil says, to his phone. Not sending it, because he'd really rather Tony didn't. He can tell Pepper has the same thought, because she retrieves another tray of food from behind the bar and goes to set it within Tony's reach, deftly moving any drinks further away, then retreats again, pressing her fingers to Clint's head in a brief, approving touch as she leaves.

Tony's head tilts as he notices the gesture. He says something, directing it down at Clint, expression wry, but Clint doesn't respond other than to lean in the way he had with Steve. "--tactics," Phil hears Tony say, through a lull in the hubbub.

Pepper's off in the crowd, mingling, feigning ease and energy in a way that Phil envies, and Steve's making an unobtrusive circuit along the wall, getting a better sight line. Bruce should really be there. Bruce is really missing out. Or having a nice peaceful evening, downstairs on his own, reading and putting his feet up the way Phil would love to be doing. 

At least Tony's cooling down, engaged in conversation to someone who looks to be military--Phil can pick them out like a pro--and one hand resting absently on Clint's back, petting restlessly now and then.

Clint, Phil can tell, is hating every minute of it. Maybe not hating Tony, exactly, or that Tony's touching him, but the talking over his head. If they're talking _about_ him, over his head, it would explain the evasive way he has his eyes fixed on the toe of one of Tony's shoes. Stubborn, instead of submissive. If the wrong person touches him, or just jostles him, Phil thinks, he's going to explode.

The plan is terrible. He's not sure why he'd thought Clint would be a calming influence when really, he's gas on a fire. Easily as much of a loose wire as Tony, and with less leeway for wayward behavior.

"Shit," Phil says, and picks up his glass. Prepares a few lines to interject himself into their conversation with, then hesitates. Not sure how it's going to read, if he's too obvious in his babysitting. If Clint would just do something. Make a wrong move that would give Phil an opening, he could use it as an excuse. It's a fine time for him to decide to behave himself.

Tony's waving a finger around in something that's both agreeable and dismissive at the same time--Phil can almost hear him saying _point, point, good point_ , but in a way that means he's trying to interrupt--and sipping champagne, hand lifting from Clint's shoulders to gesture. 

Phil frowns. Clint's going extra still every time Tony lifts his hand, then drops it again, but it's nothing unexpected, with his history. Nothing anyone could hold against him, even if they were likely to notice. There's no rebellion, not even when Tony offers him sips of champagne and tiny éclairs, holding them out for Clint to take from his fingers, and if Clint's willing to go along with that, then he's probably fine.

Which means that they're probably in the clear, at least for the rest of the night, so Phil lets himself relax and turns his attention to finding some enjoyable conversation, and he's probably jinxed them with that bit of taking for granted, because when he goes in the morning to check on things, Clint isn't in his bed and neither is Steve.


	2. Chapter 2

"I thought they might have stayed upstairs," Bruce says, looking like he'd rather be pacing, but containing the urge so well that instead he's almost perfectly still, sitting on the edge of his bed and wary in a way Phil hasn't seen him be in a long time. The way Phil is taking up space in the small cubicle--Phil likes to think of them that way, since the small rooms are open anyway, separated from the main hall only by a half-wall--and standing over him probably isn't helping.

"You're not in trouble," he says, backing up a little and moving into a corner so he's not blocking the exit. Bruce has a small desk tucked into the space and it's just high enough to prop a hip against, which Phil does, folding his arms over his chest to take up less space and look less ready to move. Making himself unthreatening, because intimidating Bruce could be a very bad idea. "I just need to know if you saw them." 

"I'm not an accessory." Bruce doesn't snort, but Phil can hear the derision, soft and gently amused. "If that's what you want to know."

It's not an answer. It could mean anything. As much of a unit as he'd like to think they've all become--are _becoming_ \--he knows Bruce and Steve, and now Clint, will look out for each other first. It wouldn't be reasonable to expect anything less. 

"I admire your loyalty, Bruce," Phil says, "So I'm wondering why they didn't take you with them."

Bruce isn't bothered. "I like it here. One, there's the hot showers." He counts off on his fingers, "Two, my skillset is a bit limited to indoor activities, and three--" It's rare for Bruce to be so openly defiant, especially since he very obviously would prefer to keep his head down, concentrate on his work, and avoid trouble.

"Three," Bruce goes on, "Those chocolate pretzel things Pepper buys. I don't think Steve knows where to get those. Sir."

"So you elected to stay and face possible interrogation." 

"Sir."

"In the name of those chocolate pretzel things."

"They're just dipped in chocolate. They're not actually--you know." Bruce shrugs.

"Right. Those and hot showers."

Bruce shrugs again. A small helpless gesture, clearly indicating that he doesn't think Phil really understands what a hot-showerless existence could be like. 

"Fine," Phil says. "Fine. See me next door."

"Are you going to torture it out of me?" Bruce asks, with a smile. Looking like he thinks the idea is genuinely amusingly, but in a tired, resigned kind of way. He doesn't get up from where he's sitting, books strewn open around him and marked with colorful little paper flags. Laptop open and running what looks like diagnostics on a project. Very routine for a man involved in a cover up, though Bruce is probably more than capable of putting up a decent front. It's hard to judge what he's up to, if anything, or if he's innocent and just being difficult out of reflexive solidarity. 

"If someone finds them before we do," Phil tells him, going for a different pressure point, "Clint's not coming back here, and I think you know that. Steve, we might be able to get a second chance for, but he's going to lose his pass, his car access rights." Not to mention his security job and the right to bear arms that comes with it.

Bruce doesn't react. 

"You know Steve is okay. You know he's been fine here." This disappearance is about Clint. Phil's sure of it. " _Bruce_."

Bruce looks down. Away. Back to Phil's feet. Buying time to calculate, and weigh his options. Bruce, Phil is now sure, has no information. Has nothing to go on, to tell whether or not it would be in Steve and Clint's best interest for him to cooperate. His covering for them is instinctive, and less sure now that he's considering the information.

"You thought they might have stayed upstairs," Phil concludes with a sigh. "They never came back here, did they?"

"Clint," Bruce says, coming to a decision. "Clint came back." He looks up. Jaw set. "I'm only telling you because someone else might get to them first, and they're more likely to kill him."

"They won't kill him," Phil says, even though he's sure there's a good chance someone would do exactly that, if Clint resists, and he's pretty sure Clint will. "They'll send him back first. And not to us."

Bruce doesn't react, other than to add, "He went next door." Phil waits for more, but Bruce looks back down, focusing on a point between them, where a loop is pulled out of his rug. A little snag of fabric that Bruce frowns at as he says, "It was three in the morning. I didn't pay that much attention. He was in there for maybe a minute, so I thought he was going to bed. When no one was here in the morning--" He trails off. "Steve stays upstairs all the time. I thought Clint went back there."

He'd gone next door, into the training room. Where Phil had made him practice with Steve, after the conference. Where Steve had gone to listen to music and have some peace and where he'd dumped his things on the table in the sitting area.

"He took Steve's goddamn car keys," Phil concludes, and hopes that's the only thing Clint's lifted and tucked away, probably stashing them under Steve's chair or a corner of the rug to retrieve later, while Phil was distracted and worrying about Tony. The only consolation is that it's a shitty plan. Too time sensitive to work outside of a very narrow window, forcing Clint to make his move no matter how unprepared he might be. Unless Steve is in on the thing, the theft could have been noticed and reported as soon as the next morning, and his involvement wouldn't buy them much more time. 

It does, however, mean that there's a very good chance they've got hold of a gun, and that's not something Phil likes having to think about. 

For lots of reasons.

"Stay here," he tells Bruce, and hits his comm, buzzing Happy, "Don't leave the hall, unless Tony wants you. And if anyone asks, _Steve_ came back."

\-----

If Clint's just seizing opportunities, then there's good chance that he's playing every move after retrieving Steve's keys by ear. He doesn't have a perfect map of Tony's security systems, and he shows up on camera near the elevators, on the stairs, and once exiting to the garage. It's still impressive evasion, and Phil's getting a fair idea of how Clint had managed to stay underground for so long after escaping Carson's. Stark tower is more tightly monitored than most places shy of core SHIELD facilities, but Clint's using blind spots and exiting guests and knowledge of personnel rotation that Phil hadn't realized he had, to weave his way down and out. Minimizing sightings, and body language shifting to blend in when he can't avoid being picked up on camera. The dress shirt Pepper had picked for him is as good as camouflage, altered just enough by Clint adding then shedding tie, then jacket, then scarf. Throwing off the automated camera alerts as he attaches, then detaches himself to groups, looking, to the system, like he's in their company.

But beyond that, the scheme is haphazard, and even though he and Steve have made good time and covered more distance than Phil would have expected, they aren't hard to locate. The car's GPS is switched off, and maybe pulled out, but Tony has backups and access--authorized or not--to any number of the cameras watching roads and traffic and gas stations and it's a matter of time, JARVIS, and the help of an SI mini jet to make up for the headstart, and then Phil and Happy are catching up with them on a small road, two states over and heading south. Up ahead, the familiar tail-lights of Steve's car are dark. The engine shut off by Phil's jammer, and the vehicle pulled over to the side of the lane, stopped at an angle, having not quite making it out of the street.

"I don't think Steve's in on this," Happy says, when Phil opens his door, despite the fact that Steve's very clearly in on it, at least in so far as he's there, standing beside his stalled out car with one arm resting on its roof, passenger side door open and sticking into the street. He looks relaxed and casual, like he's been running an errand for Tony, and run into them unexpectedly. 

Happy frowns hard out the windshield, hunched forward the way he does when he wants to interfere, but can't. Phil looks at him, and doesn't answer. Just gets out and straightens up. Fixes his suit while he waits to see what Steve's going to do.

"Phil."

"Any reason you've dragged us halfway to Florida?" Phil asks, not looking as Happy gets out on the other side and reluctantly pulls a stun gun that he nevertheless keeps aimed down at the street. "And after last night? Couldn't wait till we'd had a chance to sleep it off?"

"Well." Steve smiles pleasantly. "Hoped you'd sleep in a bit, actually." 

Clint's still in the car. Phil can see that he hasn't turned and is still staring out the front of the car, unmoving. Completely aware that their sudden car trouble is Phil's doing, that his stolen car is equipped with failsafes he should have anticipated, and that he's just made a stupid mistake on top of a stupider one.

"Are you armed?" Phil asks.

"Clint has--"

"Are _you_ armed?"

Steve stops to consider that, eyes narrowing. Then he says, slowly, "It's in the car," and "I have papers," even though they both know that Phil's aware of that.

"Good. Get it and slide it over."

Steve hesitates, then does, ducking back inside to get the gun from Clint. Phil pretends not to see. Pretends he doesn't feel sick about what could have happened, if they'd been a bit more careless, or been pulled over. If they'd debugged the car more thoroughly and Phil had been forced to report them. If they'd _ditched_ the car, stolen another, and Phil had been forced to report them. The unthought-through mess isn't a plan anywhere near worth the risk, and Phil wouldn't have thought that Clint was that stupid. That Steve was. 

The gun makes a long scraping sound against the asphalt, coming to a stop in the street, short of Phil and Happy's car, still as deadly lying there in the open as it could be in Steve's hand, but in an entirely different way. 

"Come over here and get in the car." 

Steve's back straightens. "No."

It's too much to deal with, on top of the slow burn spin-out Tony's been on, and it's hassle Phil hasn't been used to from _Steve_ , for a long time now. He can feel a headache starting, throbbing dully behind his temples and takes a deep breath before letting it out again. "Where are you two even going? Do you _know_? How far do you think you'll get, before you're recognized? And driving _that_?" 

Steve considers the car. It's not the flashiest thing Tony could have assigned to him, but it's not exactly the most low key getaway option. "Farther than this, if you'd turn the engine back on," he says, but takes a half step away from it and holds up his hands. " _You_ come _here_. I'm not leaving Clint."

" _Steve_."

"No, Phil." Not _sir_. Steve's stubborn as a rock, when he wants to be, and he's not going to budge. There's the _hell or high water_ set to his jaw that Phil remembers from his sentencing and from the first weeks after Tony had acquired him, pulling strings and calling in favors that Steve hadn't appreciated, regardless of what he might have been in for otherwise.

Phil heaves a breath. "Giving in to you sets a bad precedent," he says.

"I'll forget it happened."

The last thing Phil wants is some passerby to get curious about why a weapon might be lying in the street, or worse, call the sight in, so Phil stops to pick up the gun as he passes. Bringing it anywhere within Clint's reach is probably a bad idea, and sticking the thing in his waistband doesn't seem secure, but after a moment's thought, Phil tucks it into his jacket instead of taking it all the way back to Happy. Hopefully buttoning his jacket up over it will make it harder for Clint to grab, if it comes to that. It's bulky, and pulls his suit uncomfortably out of place. Not a weapon meant for concealment. It's hard against Phil's ribs the whole short walk down the side of the road.

Steve watches as he approaches, then says something to the inside of the car, directing it at Clint, and even though the driver's side window is down when Phil steps up to it, he doesn't catch it. Can't make out what Steve's said by Clint's reaction, either, because he has none. His jaw stays set, and his eyes narrowed, looking out to some distant point, hands white knuckled on the steering wheel. He looks pissed, and Phil feels about the same way, but he keeps his tone even and his face calm as he tries the door. It's not locked.

"Get out," he says, before Clint can say anything. "On the ground."

Clint doesn't budge, but his teeth grind together hard enough that Phil can hear it. If they were back at the tower, he'd shove something into Clint's mouth to keep him from cracking a molar or accidentally biting his cheek, but they're not and Phil's not even sure he should touch him just at the moment.

"Now, Clint." he repeats, making sure it's coming out firm, but calm, "I have to make sure you're not armed. Get out of the car."

Still no response. Clint doesn't even turn to look at him, and Phil's about to _make_ him do as he's told, jacked-up leg be damned, but as soon as he moves to do it, Clint spits, "There were _pictures_." Phil freezes. Rewinds and comes up with nothing.

"What?"

" _Pictures_ ," Clint repeats, eyes snapping away from the street to glare. Icy with anger. "At--" His voice drops. Like even he thinks it makes no sense, now that he's hearing himself. "You didn't say there were going to be pictures."

Phil glances at Steve, but Steve isn't any help, looking away towards Happy and giving no clues even though Phil's sure he's listening. It's unclear how much he knows, or what Clint's told him--if he knows the hell is going on--but at least he doesn't seem to have had a hand in this escape plan. It's a relief to realize that Clint's behind the whole thing, and Phil doesn't have to figure out what to do about having misread Steve all this time, even if it does mean he'll have to figure out what to do about Clint making a run for it, interstate, and stealing car, firearms and Steve fucking Rogers in the process. It's not a promising record, for a first time offender and for Clint, it could be as good as a death sentence.

"You mean last night? This is about _photos_?" Phil asks, wanting to laugh, but holding it in. He hadn't even thought about photos, of all things. Had taken it as a given for so long, that the _absence_ of camera clicks and flashes would have been more noticeable. Even when security checked for them, some sort of device always got through. It hadn't even occurred to Phil to warn Clint about it. "It's Tony, of _course_ there were photos. There's photos of Tony on the can, if you know where to look."

"That's gross." It's automatic. Clint commenting out of turn like he can't help himself, but at least it's a break in the ice, and his death grip on the steering wheel relaxes a little.

"Get out of the car and we can talk about the photos," Phil says, "Or at least tell me if you're armed."

Clint heaves a breath. Phil's willing to bet that he probably hasn't eaten since the cakes Tony had fed him, and by now he's probably burned through the sugar and then some. Whatever he's been running on, he's reaching the end of it. "I'm not."

"Okay. That's good. I'm going to pat you down quick to make sure, okay?"

He gives Clint time to think it over and nod, letting him give permission that Phil doesn't need, then runs hands over him, anywhere he might be hiding a knife or gun or even pepper spray. It's awkward, with Clint still in the car, but when Phil pulls him out and gives him a gentle nudge to turn him, he follows easily and lets Phil push him against the car, to pat down more thoroughly. Stays soundless and passive while Phil finishes checking him out and comes up with nothing more damning than a wad of bills and some change. Some stranger's credit card and ID that Phil hopes to god they haven't had a chance to use yet.

"Steve, go to Happy."

Steve doesn't. His gaze shifts to Phil, then to Clint then to the roof of the car, where Clint's hands are curled into tight fists. 

"He's fine," Phil says, "We're going to take you both home, as soon as I disable the jammer. We'll be right behind you." Steve hesitates, but adding rebellion to their list of infractions isn't going to do anything but make things worse, and he has to know it. "I promise he's fine, Steve."

"If you get rid of him--" They'd all be off the hook, no details necessary, and no price to be paid by anyone except Clint. Everything wrapped up tidily, or as tidy as possible, with Tony in the mix, before it becomes a mess, and before Clint can do anything else that might become a mess in the future. Steve doesn't look at Clint as he says it, eyes locked on Phil's. It's a threat, or a promise of some kind, but Phil can't work out the details of what, exactly, Steve intends to use as leverage.

"We're not getting rid of him. You'll see him at the tower. Go back with Happy."

Steve still looks suspicious. "And the running?"

"You weren't running. You have papers for the car, and the gun, and you have a pass. Don't push this."

Steve makes a disgruntled noise, but Phil ignores it. Waits until Steve slams his door shut, and starts moving away. He stops once, halfway to Happy, to turn back around like he's about to change his mind, but then Happy holds up the stun gun--helplessly, rather than threateningly--and calls, "Don't make me do it, Rogers." 

He sounds really unhappy about having to make the threat, and Phil thinks Steve gives in more to spare Happy than himself, but he closes the distance to the other car, and then the sound of doors closing cuts off the drift of their voices. Happy starts the car, but it stays idling and doesn't leave--Happy as reluctant to leave him alone with potential danger, as Steve had been to leave Clint.

They're as alone as they're going to be allowed, for now, and Clint tenses up a little under his hand. The muscles in his back bunch, but the only move Clint makes is to open his hands against the roof of the car, as if trying to find purchase. Phil gets a better grip on his shirt, twisting a hand in the fabric. It's not last night's dress shirt anymore, but a t-shirt Steve may have had in the car. It's a bit big, and Clint has the sleeves hitched, tucked in at the shoulders to keep it from hanging. "You could have been killed, Clint," Phil says, "Both of you. Do you understand that?" There's no answer. Phil can't see Clint's face, but his head dips then thumps softly against the car. He makes a sound like he's going to speak, then doesn't. It's pretty clear that nothing Phil says is going to get through, even if Clint is hearing him, which is doubtful.

But it's not like Clint doesn't know what he might have brought down on their heads, and know it intimately, because eventually he says, "I told Steve not to come," in a low murmur that Phil barely catches, with Clint facing away from him.

It's good that Steve had. Or at least, it's good for Clint, to be able to share the blame around. Allocate the most dangerous infractions to where they'll do the least harm, absorbed by Steve's good record and defused by the existence of formal permissions.

"We're going to get you home, and deal with this there," Phil says. "Stay put while I get this car up and running, and keep your hands where I can see them. So much as _think_ of giving me trouble and I _will_ shoot your legs out from under you. I have enough on my hands right without having to chase you down twice in one day."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want more details on those tags, notes are at the end.

They stop once, so Phil can pick up food that Clint ignores in favor of staring out the window, and coffee for himself. It's bitter, and strong enough to get them back to New York, where he sends Bruce upstairs to Pepper and Tony, locks both Steve and Clint up in the slave hall, then hits the sack, even though it's barely evening. And instead of sleeping, lies there and thinks, grimly, of what a mess they could have had on their hands, and imagines asking Tony, _still think it's fun to buy a runner?_ then can't help but also imagine the mess it would make of Tony, to have to deal with the aftermath of that in a way wasn't self-indulgently picking up others' pieces. To be left with the wreckage instead of getting to play fixer.

It's not fair. It's not like Tony's ignorant or even all that sheltered, really, games and bullheadedness aside. If anything, this mess is on Phil. The result of minor errors and lapses of attention stacking up and toppling, with no push from Tony outside of the usual.

"He'll do this again," Phil reports, after dinner, and doesn't look to where Happy's standing casual guard, alone and without Steve to coordinate with. "And I can't tell you what made him do it _this_ time." Not in a way that makes sense, at least. He's got the feeling Clint's going to prove full of trip wires, just waiting for someone to put a foot wrong.

"You got them back," Tony points out, but his usual flippant, airy tone is gone. He sounds tired and worn and like he's finally coming down, and maybe coming down hard, but there's nothing Phil can do about it. It'll have to be Pepper's problem. Maybe a little bit Rhodey's problem, if he ends up in town soon enough.

"This time. Steve caught him in the garage and invited himself along." Everything had been so lucky, and so close that Phil feels a bit sick with it. "They had a gun, but it was Steve's and he has a permit."

Tony frowns and leans back in his chair. Scratches his chin. He's grounded enough that he picks up on what Phil's not saying, face serious and with no hint of ironic humor, eyes full of calculation, the way they are when he's working through equations or considering post-battle damage and weighing cost against positive outcome. "Okay," he says, and doesn't question the report, or add commentary. Just lets Phil dance them both around the full truth, as careful as if the place were bugged.

"Technically," Phil says, "The only real problem here is that Steve took Clint out without permission and without papers."

"Technically," Tony echoes, "that's an easy mistake to make, if you're running errands all day. I'm sure he takes uncleared cars half the time, too. Really. Give a man a Cadillac, and all you get is bitch, bitch, bitch."

Phil smiles. It feels stiff. "We don't have to say anything more than that, and only if it comes up, but this can't happen again. We could have lost them both." Would almost certainly have lost Clint, if Steve hadn't played interference and likely put a hold on the more stupid, rash decisions Clint might have made, left to his own devices and acting on a plan he'd made while fueled only by champagne, chocolate pastries, and panicky rage.

"So was it the karaoke?" Tony asks, getting up and pacing to the bar, then back, without having made a drink. There's still glasses standing around. The tail end of clean-up always dragging, because Tony has a habit of getting in the way, deciding all of a sudden that the penthouse is personal space, and sacrosanct, despite having treated it like a nightclub less than twenty-four hours before. He flops back into his chair. Slides his glass across to the middle of the table. "Because I didn't have a chance to get warmed up. Tell him next time we can start with something easy. Or let Pepper do the singing. Or if that's no good, I think Happy was in some kind of accapella--"

"I threw him into it too fast." Because he'd thought Tony might do something reckless and stupid, so instead he'd stepped up himself, and given Clint enough rope to pull his own stunt and hang himself. It could have come to that drastic an outcome. Easily.

Tony waves the self-recrimination away and grins. It's a strangely sympathetic look, considering how Tony's been acting, and it's odd to see him with a soft expression instead of an obnoxious, challenging one. "You're not really a part of this house till your screw-ups get people killed," he says. "Or nearly. I'll allow _nearly_."

Phil's killed people with his mistakes before, while he was with SHIELD, more times than he's like to admit or think about, but he gives Tony a wry look and says, "Welcome home, me, I guess."

Tony leans forward to thump him on shoulder. The gesture a little silly, from his seated position. "So? What did you need? Because otherwise, you'd have already done whatever you're going to do to them, not giving me the _take this seriously, Tony_ speech."

"It _is_ serious."

Tony frowns, chin in hand. Says, "So I'm guessing this means that you think I'm not going to like your idea."

"Why should you? _I_ don't like my idea."

\-----

Tony _doesn't_ like the idea, but he signs off on it anyway and it's rotten to let him take final responsibility for what's essentially Phil's decision, especially when Tony's already assigned himself the task of carrying all sorts of final responsibilities, reasonable and not. It feels like passing the buck, and like he's adding straws to an already burdensome load, but it's too drastic a step to take without an official thumbs up. Especially since Phil's essentially going against the order of _make Clint not run_ and changing it to _make Clint retrievable_.

Preparation doesn't take long--is disconcertingly simple, and expedient, in fact--and when Phil gets back to the hall, Clint and Steve are talking in low tones, but stop when he enters. They look tense and anxious, and Phil's never seen Steve look quite like that. Shoulders hunched self-defensively even though he's leaning against the wall by the doorway to his cubicle, trying to feign confidence and ease. He looks pale and strained, and Clint, sitting sideways on the couch nearby, has his head down so his face is obscured by shadows and one arm. He's got a hand in his hair, fingers curled over the back of his head, tugging at the strands in a way that's become familiar, from every time Phil's made him be still and let himself be worked with.

"Sir," Steve says, when Phil comes closer. His voice is low, and cautious, and his eyes flick searchingly over Phil's face. Gauging his mindset, or trying to read him for clues.

"I'd like to say you've got no idea what kind of trouble you're in," Phil tells them both, "Except, I think you're both pretty clear on that. I think you know how serious this is, and knew _before_ you did it. And then you did it anyway." Steve frowns, but Phil goes on before he can say anything. "Tony trusted you, Steve."

Steve frowns. "Trusted."

"Might still. You'll have to talk to him. But I don't think taking Clint on a road trip--"

"He didn't do anything," Clint interrupts. Phil gives him a look for the infraction, but his head is still down and he doesn't see. His voice sounds rough. "I took his stuff." At least Clint has the sense to not specify. To not admit to anything that will make anyone duty bound to file an official report. "He was just--"

"Trying to help," Phil finishes for him. "I know. But you should have let me know instead of--"

"I was hoping to turn us back," Steve admits, cutting Phil off, then ducks his head in apology but continues anyway, "before anyone noticed."

"So you're an _us_ , then?" Phil asks, "You're a part of this stealing and lying and escaping?" 

Steve jaw sets, and his expression goes stubborn and hard. "Aided and abetted," he says, "So yes. I am."

"Good," Phil says. "Then you can help me with this." He's close to them now, and Clint's head is tilted to watch him, eye just visible over the back to the couch and with his head still angled down. Phil pats him on the shoulder and keeps his hand there as he comes around the end of the couch, consciously stepping between Steve and Clint as he does it. Breaking their sight line, and subtly undermining the bubble of solidarity they've formed around themselves. With Phil in the middle of it, a physical barrier between them, they're just Clint and Steve again, and not an escapee team, banded together and trying to stare him down.

It only takes a small nudge from Phil, and then Clint's sliding off the couch and going to his knees on the floor, eyes still lowered, and body language passive. Much more agreeable than he'd been when Phil had first caught up with him. Phil's pretty sure it's for Steve's benefit, and calculated. Clint capitulating to not make anything worse for the man he'd dragged down with him.

"Easy," he says, and gently adjusts Clint's arms until his hands are resting between his folded knees, then moves to rest his hand on Clint's back, keeping away from his neck or any gesture that might read as threatening. "I promised you'd never be sold, and that includes giving you up or away. You're going to be fine."

"And Steve? Sir?" The _sir_ is still tacked on, but it's wavering, and not in rebellion. Even in the relaxed pose Phil's put him in, he's trembling faintly. Pumping panic and adrenaline, no doubt, and if Phil pushes him, he's likely to get an elbow to the face and another, more frantic escape attempt. Phil lowers his voice in response.

"Technically." He saying that word a lot, today. "He has an infraction, but it's nothing too major, and he has a good record. He's okay."

Clint's breath goes out of him in a whuff, and he slumps a little, head bowing even more, till his face is just about brushing Phil's knee. "Thanks." It's a whisper, but Clint follows it immediately with a more audible, "Thank you."

It's obvious Steve doesn't approve of being let off the hook, and that he's caught on to the fact that _Clint_ isn't getting the same pass. He looks grim. Mouth a hard frown, and Phil tries to ignore it and concentrates on getting Clint a little calmer, before he starts explaining, "I'm not going to punish either of you, but we can't let this go either. This is--" a consequence. Unavoidable. A safety mechanism. Saying Clint had forced his hand isn't _wrong_ , but it seems harsh, and unkind to say. "It's not a punishment, Clint. You won't be hurt."

Clint's head comes up a little, but it's Steve who demands, "What are you going to do to him?" 

Phil doesn't answer, other than to shake his head a little, to stop Steve's questions, and reaches into his jacket, coming up with a clear tube, vacuum-sealed in a plastic skin, and with a dull colored oblong shape suspended in liquid inside it, too large to be medication. He turns it over in his hands a few times, Steve and Clint watching. 

"What--?" Steve starts again, but Clint cuts him off.

"A tracker. It's a tracker. It--" His mouth closes on whatever he'd been about to say next, teeth clicking, and then his head is ducked again, hiding his expression.

"It might feel a bit strange right after, but it won't hurt." 

"I know how they work."

"Then you know it won't take more than fifteen minutes--"

"For it to start binding to my brain stem? Yeah. I heard."

That's not how the thing works, but Phil's heard the speculations before. "It's not nearly that drastic," he says.

"It's permanent."

"More or less. Yes."

"How's that not _drastic_?" Clint's tone has bite. Panic shifting into fight, which isn't where Phil wants him to go. Not with the violence he's capable of. 

"Get him some water, Steve," he directs, reaching back into his pocket to pull out a blister pack, and cutting the foil at the back of it with his thumbnail.

"What are you--?"

"Both of you take it easy. It's just a sedative. You'll start to feel sleepy pretty soon, but it's not going to knock you out. We're going to do this fast and make it go as easy as possible. No one's going to be hurt." The pills fall into his hand. Pale and round. "You too, Steve. Calm down. And get that water."

Clint shivers, and his hands twitch when Phil gets a thumb between his teeth to pry his mouth open, but that's the extent of his resistance. He lets Phil tuck the pills into his mouth, one at a time, and drinks when he's told. Lets Phil check to make sure each capsule is gone and not hidden in his cheek or under his tongue. 

"Okay," Phil tells him, and adjusts them both, so that his leg is more comfortable and Clint is resting closer, leaning against him. 

Steve still looks tense and suspicious, and he sounds scared when he asks, "And now what?" with enough edge in it that Phil's sure he's ready to fight if he has to, if it'll mean condemning both of them instead of leaving Clint on his own. It's not helping, and it's not helping _Clint_ , whose breath sounds a bit ragged with terror, so Phil waits for the drugs to start working, and for Clint's trembling to ease, and then for him to relax into Phil's leg, head lolling against his knee, before he answers.

"I have a doctor next door." Let in through the extra room, bypassing the sleeping hall to set up without disruption. Phil's hand moves over Clint's head, in absent reassurance, but Clint's drowsy enough now that he doesn't react much, his alarm brief, and muted. "From Tony's personal medical team. We're not letting anyone touch you who hasn't been vetted."

Steve frowns. Shifts his weight restlessly, face mutinous. "And if you think you're getting off easy, Steve," Phil reminds him, "You're going to help."

\-----

Despite his promises not to, Phil thinks, he is punishing Steve, because even though Clint is stumbling and uncoordinated, Steve looks like the sight of the padded table is making him sick, and his face darkens when Clint catches on and goes berserk. Or as berserk as he can, wobbly and half out of it, and maybe only half comprehending what's going on. Possibly even reacting to something remembered instead of the present reality.

"Phil!" It's a snap. Half anger, half desperation and Steve changes it a half second later to, "Sir," and "Come on, he's--"

"He's okay," Phil says, keeping his voice calm even though he'd like to be yelling too, "Just get him on the table, and we'll get him calmed down."

Steve scowls, arms wrapped around Clint, keeping him both upright and still, and for a second, Phil's sure he's pushed Steve too far, for the first time ever, and is about to have a mutiny on his hands. He's ready to call _lockdown_ and prepare for security to be summoned, and maybe even _non-Stark_ security, and then for everything to come crashing around them, but Steve maybe has the same sequence of thoughts, because he doesn't relax, but he does shuffle Clint forward and helps heft him onto the table.

"If he's hurt--" Steve warns. Phil pretends to not realize that's a threat, and one with intent behind it. He doesn't want to address it anyway, with the doctor in the room.

"He won't be," Phil says, and leaves it at that, telling Clint, "On your stomach" as he moves to guide Clint down, steadying him as he swivels. It's a familiar position, and one Clint's been getting more relaxed about, the longer nothing awful happens. For now, the combination of that and the drugs are enough to keep him pliant. His eyes track Phil as he moves around the table to Clint's head, to where Clint can see him more easily and he can distract Clint while the straps are fastened. Broad, padded leather closing over his thighs and waist and in three points along his arms and over the back of his neck. Immobilizing him as completely as possible while Steve watches the proceedings with a wary scowl. 

Clint doesn't seem to notice until it's done, and then he lets out a high whine of terror, eyes darting, searching for escape. Suddenly close to panic, even with his reactions muffled by drugs, and Phil gently lays a hand against his face, drawing his attention. "Easy, Clint. Easy. It's ten minutes, and then you'll be done. That's all that's going to happen here. I just need you still for this. You're fine." There's no reason to make Steve watch it, though, and no reason to lay the guilt on any heavier, when it's thanks to Steve that he's not in the wind already.

"It's a _tracker_ , Steve. It's not going to hurt him," Phil says, prefacing his dismissal, because Steve's unlikely to leave without that reassurance. "He'll be a bit bruised for maybe a couple of days. That's it. It's--" not Stark tech, because Tony doesn't want a hand in that business, but Stark edited tech. Everything nasty and dangerous removed, leaving homing signal and failsafe, and with the access to those locked under layers of encryption. "It's safe. I promise. Why don't you go get something to eat? By the time you're done, this will be over."

It's not really a suggestion, and Steve knows it, but he lingers when the doctor slides a pair of scissors under the collar of Clint's shirt, and parts the fabric with two tidy snips, just enough to expose his neck and inches of spine. Clint takes a sharp breath, then another as the corners are folded back, making space to work. "Eyes on me, Clint. Steve, _go_."

Clint makes another low sound, a helpless, mindless moan, and Phil leans in on impulse and presses a kiss to his hair. "You're okay. We won't start until we know you're ready."

Phil had promised _ten minutes_ , total, but it takes at least fifteen to get rid of Steve, whose tension is making Clint tense, and for the drugs to take hold again. Phil talks and pets and waits, and eventually Clint calms back to drowsy placidity, breath slowing and the movement of his eyes growing less agitated, until he's just blinking sleepily at Phil.

"Okay," Phil says, directing it at Clint, but nodding for the doctor's benefit, "You're going to feel a bit of cold. It's just a swab." That's followed by a series of needle pricks that make Clint flinch and make his eyes roll in panic, but then he's numbed up, and barely reacts when the tracker is placed, with tiny tools working through tiny incisions. There's not even stitches. Just a couple of butterfly sutures.

"Stay still," Phil says, as the doctor finishes up and cleans the site, "We're not letting you up yet." It'll take a few minutes for the tracker to extend fibers, to fuse to his spine and spinal cord and inserts itself into his motor system. A device that'll withstand any attempt Clint might make to cut it out. "Anything hurt?" 

Clint makes a low _nn_ sound, then manages a more coherent, "No," but he's flinching and shifting in his restraints, and after a few minutes, Phil notices his fingers twitching. "Just--feels creepy," Clint rasps. He sounds a bit hollow.

"That's normal. It'll go away in a little bit. Let me know when it starts to ease up, and if everything's going alright, we'll get you to sleep through the rest." Clint makes a soft noise again, and licks his lip restlessly, but when nothing happens other than Phil waiting the time out with him, he settles and is back to drowsy when the straps come off and Phil pushes another dose into his mouth.

"To help you sleep. Swallow, and you're done."

\-----

When Clint's slept most of it off and is coordinated enough to move, Phil steers him upstairs to Tony's and tucks him into Tony's bed, where someone with the authority to give him another dose, or call in medical help--Pepper, probably--can keep a closer eye on him overnight. Then he goes to fix himself a drink, but ends up rummaging through Tony's fridge instead, eating leftovers straight out of their containers, without bothering to heat them.

Which is where Bruce finds him. Phil's almost forgotten him entirely, in the chaos and the mess after, and he's sure that Bruce knows it, because he's smiling in a dry, not really amused way. A look that's usually reserved for Tony's more imaginative ideas or Pepper's more exasperated moments.

"Thank you for not also exploding this weekend," Phil tells him seriously, with a chicken wing in one hand and a plastic box in the other, "Or having a meltdown, or starting a fire, or losing your keys and locking yourself out."

"I thought we had passwords," Bruce says, and comes to sit at the counter. He doesn't look as happy as his light tone would suggest, and Phil's sure that he's heard everything from Steve by now, and, Bruce's failure to cause his own disaster aside, there's cleanup there that Phil will have to attend to. This thing with Clint's caused all kinds of fractures, between all of them, and on top of it, there's the problem of Clint and photography that Phil hasn't even started to sort out, but it's bound to be weird or dire, or both.

"Passwords are revoked. For everyone. We're on unofficial lockdown for a while." Until Phil knows how Steve's going to react to today. Clint, if he makes a break for it now, they'll be able to find and pick up in minutes. Or immobilize remotely, if it comes to that, which is an idea he'll have to introduce Clint to carefully, both to prevent future attempts and so he's not taken off guard should they ever have to trigger the device. "How's Tony been?"

"Mad," Bruce smiles. Shrugs. "At himself, I think. Maybe it's good for him."

In small doses, maybe, but Tony being mad at himself is at the base of Tony being mad at the world, is at the base of Tony being mad at himself. The circular pattern of Tony's moods is another thing Phil doesn't want to deal with right now. "News from Rhodes?" he asks, and doesn't try to hide his hopeful tone.

"Next week. Maybe the week after that." 

"If there's anything left of this place by then."

Bruce is nice enough to pretend to laugh, but then he says, "I could have been at the party. Instead of Clint. Tony doesn't really give me trouble."

"Oh? This is a new tune."

"Mangling notes isn't really the same. Clint probably looks better eating tiny sandwiches from Pepper's hand, but," he shrugs, "I could have done it."

It would probably be better to _not_ be having this conversation with his fingers covered in barbeque sauce and in front of the open fridge, but Phil is also sure that the informality is what's making it possible for Bruce to have the conversation at all. "This wasn't your fault. In _any_ way."

"I should have reported Clint--"

"Steve."

Bruce gives him a flat look. Corrects to, "What they were doing. When you asked. I'm sorry I gave you trouble."

"It was done, Bruce. By the time any of us realized they were gone, they were _gone_. We couldn't have avoided this." Planting the tracker he means. He's not really sure if Bruce is thinking the same thing. It's possible he's focused more on Tony's upset about the tracker, which is understandable, considering he's had to watch it all day. "If it's anyone's fault, it's mine." Not even Clint's. "It was my job to keep an eye on him and on Steve. And on you." He puts the box down and slides it down the counter, closer to Bruce, "Have some chicken."

Bruce doesn't take him up on it, but he does accept the half glass of wine Phil pours him from a bottle he finds, then stands there swirling it and frowning. 

"Nothing blew up, Bruce. We're still fine."

Bruce heaves a sigh. He still looks unhappy, but he lifts his glass in minute toast.

"Here's to _still fine_."

"And while Tony's feeling bad about acting like an ass, he'll probably deliver papers the way you want him to."

"So I guess this all worked out," Bruce says, mild, even though Phil knows he means it sarcastically. 

"We're still fine," Phil insists, "Right now, I'll take what I can get."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene where Phil has a tracking device implanted in Clint, and the procedure is both traumatic (or at least, Clint is very scared of it, and Steve is upset) and non consensual.


End file.
